Interference
by Konstantinsen
Summary: Zakhaev believed it was luck. Makarov called it fate. MacMillan got over it as another symptom of the shakes. But Price knew that the shot was perfect. Everything...everything added up. He just couldn't understand how it didn't.


**NOTE: The effect of playing two games in one day. Enjoy.**

* * *

_ Zakhaev believed it was luck. Makarov called it fate. MacMillan got over it as another symptom of the shakes. But Price knew that the shot was perfect. Everything…everything added up. He just couldn't understand how it didn't._

* * *

_1996_

The moment Price saw the bullet close the gap between him and Imran Zakhaev, he knew for certain the shot was botched. It was unmistakable from what he had witnessed through his scope.

The wind had pacified (_flag on the jeep drooped down_). The man was being docile (_standing upright with his head in the clouds_). The crosshairs were just right (_a few notches for gravity_). Everything…everything added up. _How the bloody hell did I miss?_

He didn't have time to process the mistake though because the armless Zakhaev had already scrambled into his getaway car. MacMillan didn't care—the massive hemorrhaging from the missing limb would eventually lead to fatal shock. What was of most pressing concern now was the Havoc chopper that locked its missiles at their position atop the Hotel Polissya.

...

The C-Consciousness hummed in its eternal hive beneath the complex of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. From the observation decks, the operators glanced at each other in a mixed expression of joy and disbelief interspersed beneath their neutral miens.

"Experiment concluded," the chief supervisor remarked, tapping them on their shoulders. "Result: success."

It was no secret to the entire working staff that some paramilitaries had gathered in the dead city. The threat of radiation, it seemed, had not been enough to deter them from crowding up the main plaza. Then again, if the Ukrainian government was not intimidating enough for them then they could handle a few isotopes here and there.

It would have been an unfortunate development as such intruders were unwelcome in their playground. But the C-Consciousness had considered them assets and thus, an experiment had been quickly derived and conducted with the unlikely test subjects already meandering into place. It already knew what was going to happen.

Right now, its thoughts were directed at the fracas that ensued their latest attempt at meddling with reality. The Duga-3 array provided more than enough range to pick up the fluctuations in the grid that had been mapped out in its memory.

Two shapes of similar texture rumbled from room to room, building to building, across the street to the city park. Several more shapes comprising more differential textures were scattering about, trying to catch up with them. It continued monitoring all activity independent of its handlers until the fluctuations peaked by the Ferris wheel before contracting and eventually dispersing.

Through it all, the C-Consciousness, in its infantile state, did not consider of the long-term effects of what had transpired. Nor did it particularly care.

All that mattered was the telekinetic interference test. And that it had succeeded by a slim margin in altering the flight path of the fifty-caliber bullet that had been meant for Imran Zakhaev's head.

A humble experiment with sophisticatedly humble intentions…

* * *

_2013_

"Target is in position."

"Acknowledged."

Price let his finger run through the groove of the trigger. The feeling was so nostalgic and although MacMillan had already left him over a decade behind in the field, the assistance provided by Alexander Degtyarev was more than enough to ensure that the remnants of the Ultranationalist Party would finally be shattered in the same place where it first began.

"It's your shot, Captain."

_With pleasure._ Everything was already in place. All that was left was for him to squeeze.

_No more interference. No more screwing up._ The C-Consciousness, the cause of the world's greatest misfortunes and the reason for the recent liberties of post-Soviet radicals, had long since been neutralized. _No more…_

_..._

Vladimir Makarov didn't like where he stood. It was too open. Too exposed. His only memories of the place were uncomfortable in the slightest. Much of Pripyat had changed—all the vegetation had browned with the ungodly amounts of radiation that the skies kept spewing out in those damned blowouts.

In front of him, the Belarusian sergeant ruffled through the banknotes stacked in the suitcase. "So, Serbin, where is the next objective?"

"I will take you there. My men are waiting for us already," 'Serbin' replied hastily.

The mercenary stared at him. "I don't want to be led into a deathtrap. What exactly do you want us to do?"

Makarov suppressed his detestation. Impatient as he was, he didn't want to waste any more time in a place like this—if the Monolith wouldn't get to them, then the mutants will. "There is a package we need to secure. You don't have to know what it is. The point is that it is kept at the city stadium. My men have already secured the area."

"Very well then. Is there anything else?"

"No. Unless there is something you wish to add to our deal then I suggest you say so now."

"Nothing more. All is good. We are ready to go. Lead the way."

"Finally—"

...

The shot was quick. The rest was automatic. By the time Price and Degtyarev descended from the rubble atop the Hotel Polissya, Task Force 141 had already secured the plaza where the corpse of Vladimir Makarov lay in a crimson pool under the colonnade.

The pair found Ghost kneeling over the body, eyeing the neat hole that had replaced the right eye on his face.

"It's him alright. We finally got him," Soap greeted from under a tree. The rest of the dead littered the concrete plot. "Brass says good work."

"They can keep the compliments," Price waved off. Funny. Makarov died with the same expression one would find in a cheesy horror flick—jaw wide open. _Finally got you, you bastard._

"I just don't get it. If he was here for the labs, then why didn't he just go directly into them?" Roach began. "I mean, he could've just got in and be done with it."

"What are you getting at, lad?"

"It's like he's after something else—"

"Those shots would attract the mutants," Degtyarev interjected, "Do you still need the body?"

"Shepherd's going to want to see him for himself," Price replied.

"And so does the rest of the world," Soap added. "After that, maybe burn him and scatter the ashes in the Volga."

"Let's get moving then. Loot what you need then we'll head out."

"Roger, Colonel." With that, Price hefted the body over his shoulder and, with the 141 operatives in tow, followed the military stalker across the street towards the Laundromat. It didn't matter what Makarov was after; it mattered that he was dead and whatever plans he had for further disasters were effectively curtailed.

For Degtyarev, the latest threat to the Gauss rifles had been neutralized. A false tip was more than enough to lure the rest of Makarov's Ultranationalists to the stadium—the place was a deathtrap in itself and apparently the terrorists weren't smart enough to map out the anomalies beforehand (not to mention the massive bloodsucker lair nesting underneath the podium).

Although having seen more than enough of the Zone's horrors to harden a man past his limit, Alexander still retained enough morals to keep the prototypes out of the hands of madmen. Neither did he intend to reveal the secrets of such devastating weaponry to these Westerners…


End file.
